


Leave It Be

by bananapudding



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Age Difference, Drinking & Talking, Drunk Kissing, F/F, Implied/Referenced Character Death, It's Maou this time, Light Angst, Suicide mention, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 07:42:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20467454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananapudding/pseuds/bananapudding
Summary: The Demon King finds that drinking sours conversations just as much as it loosens lips.





	Leave It Be

Although the Demon King has never had a problem drinking entire flasks of sake all by herself, she won’t deny it’s a much more enjoyable activity in the company of others. Of the things she can give Chaldea credit for, she supposes she can add tolerable drink and a wide selection of people to share it with to the list.

Then again, the point of sharing a drink among allies is wasted if said allies can’t remain awake enough for any merriment to ensue.

“I have to hand it to you, man-slayer,” Maou says as she sets her thrice-emptied sake bowl on the low table, “out of everyone here, I didn’t expect that you’d be the best at holding your liquor.”

Okita had had a vacant look trained on her own sake, but Maou’s voice makes her glance up. Her head swivels to survey the lounge that they’ve occupied. Hijikata and Katsuzou occupy most of the floor, having passed out after a drunken fistfight over stolen snacks. Li Shuwen, who’d intervened earlier, now sits on the tatami with his legs crossed and his back straight, and if it weren’t for his unresponsiveness and the barely noticeable droop of his chin, he could easily be mistaken for both awake and sober. Okada is lying face-down in a puddle of his own drool on the other side of the room, and Nagao sits propped against the wall nearby, limbs askew and face slack. For the first time, Okita seems to recognize that she and Maou are indeed the only conscious parties left in the room.

“Oh,” she says. “I think I’ve just had less than everyone else.”

“Perhaps. The others certainly weren’t holding back. Ah, I can only imagine the headaches they’ll wake up with.” The corners of Maou's lips turn up with amusement as she moves to fill her sakazuki again.

“Well, Hijikata-san will probably be fine, at least…” Okita frowns. “He’ll just be cranky. I’ll have to make sure he has plenty of takuan when he wakes up.”

“I’d worry more about yourself, girl. I get the impression that you don’t drink as often as he does.”

“I guess you’re right. I just don’t think to do it all that much.”

“I’d say that’s not a bad thing, but.” Maou takes another long sip of sake and hums. “You could stand to loosen up more, I think.”

“Whaaat?” Okita stiffens with offense, and she gives her head a quick shake. “No, no, I have a good head on my shoulders. I’d rather not lose it and do something to disgrace the Shinsengumi name.”

Maou snorts. “Hmph, that’s so like you. But to each their own.”

Okita's cheeks puff, lips pursed into the least threatening display of irritation Maou's ever seen. "You don't even look drunk, yourself."

"That's because I'm not. I'm only what you'd call, ah, tipsy." She says the word in English with a quiet laugh at the way it sounds—a funny word perfect for this funny situation and this funny half-drunk state. "Perhaps I'd show it more if I were a different me, with a body small and cute like yours."

"Right, the Nobu I know would definitely—" Okita cuts her sentence short, looking as though she just bit her tongue. The rosy tint that the alcohol had filled her cheeks with deepens to a mottled crimson. She stammers, "Wha- you- it's, I'm not—!" before her sentence trips into a dead end and, recognizing the futility of her argument, she tosses her head back and downs a few more gulps of sake.

It's not the smartest thing she could've done. She comes back up coughing into her sleeve, chin wet with all that she couldn't swallow, and Maou can only laugh at her.

"My, my, no need to get so zealous. Whatever happened to not losing your head?"

Okita continues to hack and gasp for a few seconds, but she's still able to spare Maou a glare through watery eyes. Maou only smiles wide in response and watches her collect herself, something unexpected and warm blooming between her ribs. There isn't a thing about Okita most would find attractive in this state, Maou thinks. Even so, she finds herself endeared by the most mundane of Okita's struggles. Okita drags the bottom of her face across the back of her hand, and Maou pictures a fussy little cat, heart full of pride and head full of nothing at all.

She clears the thought away with another drink. It won't be long before she drains another bowl, now, but the thought of how little that means at this point makes her sigh.

"I should've brought my skull cup," she says. "It's cool enough to make anything taste good."

"Creepy," Okita grumbles.

"It is not. You just don't have refined enough taste to appreciate the statement it makes." Pensive, Maou tilts the bowl from side to side a bit, enough that she can watch the liquid within lap at the edges. "Ah, come to think of it. One of those Grails I was given might be interesting to drink out of, too."

Okita pulls a face. "You don't wanna do that. Weird things happen when people start eating out of magical items. Like the time Chacha used a Grail as an ice cream dish…" She flicks her wrist as though to bat the thought away. "Y'know what I'm getting at."

Maou doesn't really know what Okita is getting at and doesn't think she wants to, so she says, "Hm. Pity. I've yet to figure out any other suitable way to use that thing. It's hardly good as decoration."

"What would you even use it for?"

"To sustain myself, of course."

Okita's brows furrow. "Like… independent manifestation?"

"Yes, that's it." Maou snaps her fingers. "I want to maintain my existence. That's all."

"Huh." Okita absorbs that for a few moments. Then, appearing no less ruffled, she brings her sake to her lips again. 

Maou clicks her tongue. "You don't sound very impressed."

"I'm not. That's a pretty selfish wish. But, guess I shouldn't expect anything different."

She sounds less incensed about that than Maou thought she might. It has to be the alcohol relaxing her, she decides. Okita's speech is hardly slurred, but it's slower, like it takes her longer to pick out and shape each of her words. Maou remains impressed that she can hold a conversation at all.

"And just what do you want from the Grail, hm?" Maou leans her free elbow on the table, cheek cupped lazily in her hand. "Tell me, man-slayer. What is your wish?"

Okita doesn't answer right away. She tips her sakazuki back with both hands, slow, the bobbing of her throat intermittent and carefully paced this time. When she's finished its contents, she brings it down clumsily, lets it rattle against the wood grain. Maou can see the physical effects of the drink on her, now—it's in the color of her face, in the beads of sweat gathering just beneath her bangs.

After a heavy, prolonged pause, Okita licks her lips and says, "Fighting."

Maou blinks. "Pardon?"

"I wanna fight," she repeats. "With the Shinsengumi, and with Master. That's all."

For a moment, Maou struggles to wrap her head around that. An unwitting snort bubbles out of her, and then another. Her own half-full sakazuki comes down hard enough on the table that droplets of liquor splash out of it, but she doesn’t have it in her to care about that. She laughs, high and sharp until she can feel all her blood in her own face, at the young woman who now sits across from her with tense shoulders and a shaky scowl.

“What’s so funny?” Okita snaps.

Maou lets her laughter die down with a theatrical sigh, drawing a finger across one of her eyelids. “Your wish, of course. That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a while.”

“Don’t- Don’t make fun of me. Shut up!” Okita slaps both palms against the table, and in a wobbly tone she says, “It’s not funny!”

“Oh, but it is! Tell me something, man-slayer. What is it that you’re fighting for? What could possibly be left to fight for, if you’ve obtained something as powerful as a Grail?”

“For… I fight for people,” Okita says. “For the things I wanna protect.”

Maou shakes her head. “That’s not a wish. A wish would be ‘I want my loved ones to be safe,’ not ‘I want to protect them.’ You’re confusing the end with the means, darling.”

That makes Okita fumble. She squints, flaps her jaws again. “Well, that’s all, uh. Sentimantics, or whatever.”

“Semantics.”

“Yeah, that. I mean- it doesn’t matter. S’long as I can protect something in the end, that’s enough for me.”

“How adorably naive of you," Maou says, though the smile has melted from her face. "We're dead, you know? If there was anything special that we wanted to protect, it's long gone now." 

"That's not true, I can still… still…"

"Ah." Realization strikes, a clap of thunder between the clouds skirting the edges of Maou's headspace. "I understand now. The act of living itself brings you guilt, doesn't it? So of course fighting is all that can bring you relief." Her chin balances itself on both of her hands. "How amusing. It looks like I'm not the only selfish one here, after all."

"Selfish?" Okita gawks with indignation. "No, I'm not! I’m putting my strength into a, a cause, y’know? What’s selfish about that?”

“Don’t lie to yourself. Any causes you believed in no longer exist, so you’ll fight for any that are available, won’t you.”

“Don’t go making me sound like some kind of mercenary—”

“Is that not what you are?” Maou runs one index finger around the dampened lip of her bowl. “Or maybe you’d like to be called a warrior. You do wish for a warrior’s death, don’t you? Do you think that’s what selflessness is?”

“At least then I’d get to choose!” Okita raises her voice, words coming quicker and strung together like her mouth’s on the verge of going numb. “I’d have been useful, that way. Could’ve, could’ve _done_ something. Even seppuku would’ve been better than what happened to me, but I couldn’t even do that. At least _you_ got to decide how you went out.”

All of the ease disappears from Maou’s posture. Something ugly flares up in her, acidic in the back of her throat, red behind her eyes. Rarely has anyone been brave enough to find the old scar on Maou’s stomach and tear it back open. It’s such a shock, in fact, that she’s left at a momentary loss for words. What is there to even say to that? How can she say anything to someone who envies the only thing she still has it in her to regret?

The wave passes almost as quickly as it came, swallowed back down like all of her sake. Had Okita been anyone else, she’d have reduced them to less than ash for their insolence, but because it is Okita she can’t find it in herself to be angry. Calm comes easy here especially, when Okita is red in the face and swaying like a reed in the wind.

“Listen to me, man-slayer,” Maou says, dangerously quiet. “People don’t choose how they die. Our ends are inevitable, and none are any more honorable than another. Do you understand? A warrior’s death holds no meaning, here.”

Okita sniffs. She doesn’t cry, but she looks like she might; her eyes are clouded, jaw tight, mouth twisted into a miserable shape.

“Sorry,” she hiccups. “That was… a really bad thing of me to say. M’sorry.”

Maou’s pulse flutters in a way she’d thought it no longer capable of. There’s that warmth in her chest again, painful this time, burned into her blood. She recognizes it from days too far gone for her to even think about anymore. She has steeled herself into apathy for the suffering of individuals, but now she feels desire crawl through her veins like poison—something sick, an instinct to take just as much as it is an instinct to soothe. 

Spurred by that feeling alone, Maou shifts over to Okita and settles herself down close, nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with her. The smaller woman stares up at her with round eyes, glossy at the corners, and appears smaller still than ever.

“All is forgiven, just this once.” She lifts one thumb up to Okita’s eyelid and swipes gently at the moisture gathered there. “Here, don’t look so upset. I should apologize, too. There was nothing funny about your wish at all.”

Indeed, it wasn’t funny. It was pitiful. She doesn’t say that, though. She isn’t so cruel as to shatter Okita’s pride when it’s all that she has left. The most she allows herself to indulge that pity is stooping closer to catch the tear budding in Okita’s other eye.

She hears Okita’s breath catch, subtle and tight with nerves. “I guess… maybe I am selfish,” she says, like it’s an afterthought.

“There’s nothing wrong with that sometimes, you know.”

“That’s a very Nobu thing to say.” Okita draws her face up enough that their noses touch, heady breaths mixed between them. Her expression isn’t quite so distressed anymore, but she still says, “It doesn’t really make me feel better, to think I’m anything like you.”

“Is that so?” Maou chuckles, her relaxed grin back in place. “What would make you feel better, then?”

“I don’t know,” Okita says.

As if to seek an answer to the question, Okita kisses her, mouth open and clumsy and wanting. Against her better judgement, Maou kisses back. She can’t say whether it’s what either of them are searching for.

By the time Okita peels off to breathe, her limbs are all but limp, lips glistening and pupils blown wide. She’s forgotten herself, Maou can tell. Maybe they both have. Want layers itself over her senses, thick and syrupy sweet, as she watches Okita’s chest heave and her eyes lid. Pretty thing, Maou thinks. What she wouldn’t give to have her again, and again, and again.

Instead she says, “I think you’ve had a little too much to drink.”

Okita pouts. “No, s’fine. Okita-san is only tipsy.”

“You don’t need to prove anything to me, or to anyone.” Maou threads a hand loosely through Okita’s hair. “Just rest, now.”

“But…”

With a roll of her eyes, Maou sits herself up straight, legs extended in front of her. It only takes one firm hand pressed into Okita’s shoulder to nudge her head off of Maou’s chest and lower it into her lap instead. Okita takes a few seconds to process this change in position, and when she does, Maou thinks the poor girl might faint right then and there.

“Oh,” she squeaks.

“Think nothing of this,” Maou says, though she smirks despite herself. “In the morning, none of it will matter.”

Okita repeats, “Oh,” more somber this time, as if it’s anything to be sad about. “I s'pose.”

“Sleep.” It’s a command, now. Her hand finds the top of Okita’s head again and strokes. “I won’t be singing any lullabies, but this should suffice.”

It does suffice, because Okita’s eyes are already closed, her only response a low hum. The emotional whiplash must have worn on her, or perhaps it was just the drink. Poor thing, Maou thinks again. Pretty thing. Foolish thing, too, to trust a demon in this unguarded state.

But Maou has a conscience. She knows that she is not fully sober, just as she knows that alcohol is to her impulses as gasoline is to flames, but she has the presence of mind to stifle that fire in her gut. She will not play the role of a monster, tonight.

She runs her fingers through Okita’s hair until the rise and fall of her chest is perfectly even. She could probably continue to do that all night, and part of her wants to. Her ache becomes palpable, though, the longer she regards Okita, the longer she fights the urge to smooth her tousled bangs and kiss her still-wet lips. When the phantom pins and needles find her legs and she can bear it no longer, Maou removes herself to crouch. Her arms slip beneath Okita’s small body and lift it up to her chest, folded slightly, close as though to protect her. She will leave the others to deal with their confusion come morning. With no regard for them, she leaves the room and heads for Okita’s.

There is no real reason for her to tuck Okita into bed as though she were a child. It won’t mitigate the hangover that’s sure to assail her later on. It feels right to do so, though. As she lays Okita in her sheets with a gentleness almost foreign to her, she is satisfied in a way she can’t remember being with anyone who’s properly warmed her bed.

It is with reluctance that she departs, yet it is with certainty that she tells herself that Okita should not drink with her again.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look at that, I wrote something that isn't porn. I can't believe that a tag for Maou Nobunaga didn't exist yet, so I took it upon myself to sell a certain agenda... because all OkiNobu is good OkiNobu!


End file.
